Page 43 of Magic in My Bones

“You look perfect,” I said, feeling my own cheeks heat as I fumbled to set the spoon down. “But I must apologize for the kitchen disaster you’ve walked into.”

He grinned, glancing at the half-prepared dishes. “Well, maybe I can help?”

I hesitated for a moment, wanting everything to be just right, but the eagerness in Ren's eyes was impossible to resist. “I'd love that,” I said, smiling. “Come on in.”

As Ren stepped further into the cottage, Bones circled him excitedly, his tail wagging so hard that a few vertebrae clattered to the floor. Ren laughed, crouching down to scratch behind Bones' skull. “Hey there, buddy. I missed you too.”

Ren stood back up, a soft smile on his face as he glanced around the cottage. His gaze landed on the pot of risotto, still steaming gently. “That smells amazing. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Well, if you wouldn't mind peeling the pears for dessert, that would be wonderful,” I said, gesturing to the fruit on the counter. “I'm afraid I got a bit carried away with the rest of the meal.”

Ren grinned, rolling up his sleeves further. “I'm on it.”

As he made his way to the counter, a small movement caught my eye. There, nestled in the folds of Ren's scarf, was a plump green caterpillar, its segmented body rising and falling with each breath. Grim, Ren's familiar, had apparently hitched a ride.

“I see you brought a guest,” I chuckled, nodding towards the caterpillar.

Ren glanced down, his expression softening as he scooped Grim into his palm. “Yeah, the little guy insisted on coming along. I think he was excited to explore somewhere new.”

I watched, enchanted, as Grim inched his way along Ren's fingers, his tiny feet creating gentle indentations in Ren's skin. There was something so tender about the way Ren handled his familiar, a gentleness that spoke volumes about his character.

As Ren began peeling the pears with deft, practiced motions, I couldn't help but admire the easy way he moved around the kitchen. There was a familiarity to his actions, a comfort that spoke of many hours spent preparing meals for others.

“You seem quite at home in the kitchen,” I remarked, stirring the risotto once more before moving to his side. “Is cooking a hobby of yours?”

Ren glanced up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “More like a necessity, growing up. My mom worked two or three jobs most of the time, so I ended up being the one to cook for my sisters.” He paused, his knife hovering over the pear as a flicker of melancholy passed over his features. “We didn't have much, but I always tried to make sure they had a warm meal at the end of the day.”

I felt a pang in my chest, a deep empathy for the struggles Ren must have faced. My own upbringing had been so different. I'd lived a life of privilege and magical legacy, where want was a foreign concept.

“That's incredibly admirable,” I said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Your sisters were lucky to have you.”

Ren sighed and shook his head. “I miss them all the time. My oldest sister, Denise, and I still chat online, but it’s not the same.”

I squeezed Ren's shoulder gently, my heart aching for the longing in his voice. “I can only imagine how hard it must be, being so far from them,” I said softly. “But I'm certain they're incredibly proud of you and all that you've accomplished.”

Ren leaned into my touch for a moment, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort offered, before straightening his shoulders and clearing his throat. “Sorry, I didn't mean to bring down the mood. Tonight's supposed to be a happy occasion.”

“Ah, mo stóirín, there's no need for apologies here,” I reassured him, my accent thickening with emotion. “A shared meal is meant for sharing stories too, the sweet and the bitter both.”

A faint blush crept up Ren's neck as he ducked his head, focusing intently on the pears. “What about you?” he asked aftera moment, glancing up at me through his lashes. “Do you have any family nearby?”

I felt my smile falter, a familiar pang of loss echoing in my chest. “Ah, no. I'm afraid it's just me and Bones,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “My parents passed away when I was a teenager. A rather unfortunate magical accident.”

Ren's eyes widened, his hand stilling on the pear. “Dorian, I'm so sorry. I had no idea.”

I waved a hand, trying to dispel the somber atmosphere that had settled over the kitchen. “It was a long time ago. I've made my peace with it.”

I moved to the stove, giving the risotto a final stir before removing it from the heat. The rich, creamy aroma filled the air, mingling with the scent of roasted vegetables and herbs. “I was born in Ireland, you know. In a small village not far from Dublin. My gran still lives out in County Cork, but it’s been some time since I’ve seen her.”

Ren's eyebrows shot up, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Really? I never would have guessed. You don't have much of an accent.”

I chuckled, picking up the bottle of white wine I'd selected for the evening and pouring us each a glass. “Ah, well, I've worked rather hard to lose it over the years. Academia tends to favor a more neutral tongue. But the Irish lilt still comes out on occasion, usually when I get particularly heated up about something.”

I handed Ren his glass, our fingers brushing lightly, and my heart stuttered in my chest. Ren's eyes met mine, warm and inviting, and I found myself leaning closer, drawn in by his soft smile and the faint scent of his cologne.

I took a sip of wine, savoring the crisp, floral notes on my tongue before setting the glass down. “You know, there's an old Gaelic saying,” I began, my voice dropping to a low, intimatetimbre. “‘Is túisce deoch ná scéal.’ It means a drink comes before a story.”

Ren’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as he took a sip from his own glass. “So, what you're saying is, I need to ply you with more wine before you’ll tell me about your childhood in Ireland?”

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